


Bugged Out

by gogirl212



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adventure, Cute, Friendship, Gen, Mission Fic, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 21:01:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12262020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogirl212/pseuds/gogirl212
Summary: On a routine mission, it's hard to tell who is bugging who more.  Inspired by the September Fete des Mousquetaires competition with the theme "annoyance" - but this is not an entry.  Just a story with some sometimes annoying and occasionally bleeding musketeers.





	Bugged Out

The day was humid, the road was bumpy, and the chiggers seemed out in full force as D’Artagnan raised a hand to slap at yet another one biting at his neck. While being out of his leather doublet gave some relief from the heat, he missed it now for the protection to his tender skin. Damn the bugs were bad. He slapped another one away.

“Stop squirmin’, will ya,” Porthos growled. They were riding double, D’Artagnan’s horse having taken up lame after a spectacularly disastrous skirmish with a quartet of bandits. It really should not have been that hard and yet somehow D’Artagnan had ended up in the river, clothes soaked, rapier snapped and facing the wrong end of a pistol. Only Aramis’s quick hand with a tossed blade had kept him from being a corpse slung over the back of Porthos’s horse instead of an undesired passenger. 

“It’s the bugs,” D’Artagnan said in exasperation, swatting at another sting, “I’m getting eaten alive.”

“You keep shifting around back there and you’ll be walking home,” Porthos muttered, leaning forward slightly in the saddle to avoid D’Artagnan’s fidgeting, “It’s more annoying than riding with a teenage girl.”

“At least I’m not crying,” D’Artagnan offered, slapping his neck again.

“Not yet,” Porthos said under his breath. D’Artagnan snorted in exasperation but chose not to give Porthos a reason to make good on his promise to make him walk. 

“Oi!” Porthos shouted suddenly, this time raising his own hand to swat at the back of his head while the horse sidestepped and shifted at her rider’s unexpected jerk of the reins. 

“Whoa! Hey!” D’Artagnan shouted as Porthos fought to regain control, “See I told you . . . ow!” D’Artagnan hissed at a sting to his back. He tried to reach behind him to get at the spot between his shoulder blades while Porthos horse spun in confused circles. Porthos grunted again, this time reaching for his ear but catching the flailing D’Artagnan in the side of the head. 

“Hey!” D’Artagnan shoved Porthos forward slightly, the horse sidestepped, Porthos shouted and tried to grab D’Artagnan as another chigger chomped on D’Artagnan’s opposite ear causing him to slap himself hard in the head.

“Enough!” came the exasperated bellow from Athos. He was riding point but stopped in the track and spun his horse to face them. He did not look at all pleased at the antics of the two men swatting at each other and flailing about on a whirling horse. Porthos pulled up on the reins and steadied their mount beneath them. 

“S’not my fault,” Porthos complained, “He’s wiggling around back there like a fish.”

“It’s the bugs!” D’Artagnan realized he was on the verge of whining, “Aren’t you being eaten alive?”

“No,” Athos’s response was deadpan, “But then I’m not riding in front of Aramis.” Athos’s demeanor was steely as ever but D’Artagnan though he saw the barest hint of a smile tug at Athos’s lips. Porthos must have seen it too because suddenly D’Artagnan was hanging on for dear life as Porthos twisted the horse around to face the marksman who was bringing up the rear.

“What?” Aramis asked innocently, but the broad smile on his face signaled how much he was enjoying the men’s discomfiture, “I’m just riding back here watching the two of you . . .” Aramis trailed off as he started to laugh, folding over on himself, shoulders shaking, “Really those bugs . . .” Aramis choked out, taking his hat off and raking a hand through his hair.

“Aramis!” Porthos was irate “I’m gonna pull you off that horse and put you in the river next.”

Aramis sighed, “You used to be so much more fun.” Aramis perched his hat back on his head, chuckling still.

“What?” D’Artagnan said confused, looking back at Athos and then at Aramis again.

“There’s no chiggers,” Porthos grunted, riding up beside Aramis. He reached and held out his hand,  
palm upturned, “Give it ‘ere.” Porthos insisted. Aramis had a look of mischievous glee as he deposited a child’s sling shot and a bunch of dried pes into Porthos’s hand.

“Proud of yerself, are ya?” Porthos said with a wry smile.

“Well, yes,” Aramis smiled broadly, clearly pleased with the mischief he had wrought, “You really should have seen yourselves,” Aramis chuckled again and Porthos shook his head, a tight-lipped smile suggesting that he had a very different idea of what might be funny and it probably involved getting Aramis into a choke hold.

“Gentlemen, if you are quite finished?” Athos called out, “We still have half a day’s ride to Amboise and I’d prefer a night in a tavern to one on the ground.” 

Porthos gave one last dark look to Aramis before shoving the slingshot into D’Artagnan’s hands and wheeling his horse around. D’Artagnan, pressed along Porthos’s back, swore the rumbling sound he could hear was the big man actually growling. Behind them, Aramis occasionally burst out laughing, but no more insects plagued them on their journey.

-M-M-M-M-

The odds of being ambushed twice on the same day were slim but that didn’t seem to matter to the eight men who had them surrounded. Athos dropped his sword and raised his hands in surrender, his eyes riveted on Porthos until he reluctantly followed suit. Porthos had the upper hand with the men he was brawling with, but Athos couldn’t risk letting the fight continue. Aramis lay sprawled at his feet, unconscious and bleeding, and while Athos knew he could have matched the swordsmen attacking him he knew he could not do it hampered by having to protect Aramis. It was better they surrender and see to Aramis then to fight on and push for a victory at the cost of the marksman’s life. He exchanged a look with Porthos and saw the big man had come to the same conclusion. They would bide their time and find another way out of this.

Athos turned his attention to the man in ratty leathers pointing a pistol at his head. Noting how the other men in the clearing looked to him, Athos surmised that this must be their leader. “You are hampering the King’s musketeers in the performance of their royal duties,” Athos said calmly with the full bearing of a man bred to authority, “Release us immediately.”

“I know who you are, musketeers,” the man sneered, “We been waitin’ for ya.” That statement tugged Athos’s eyebrow nearly imperceptibly upward. Not ordinary bandits then but something else.

“If you know we are Musketeers then you know it is treason to impede our business,” Athos responded calmly. 

“Treason!” the man shouted, stepping closer to Athos and pushing the pistol toward his chest, “It is not treason for men to protect what is theirs! It is not treason to defend our homes and our property.” 

“I am sure that if you have a legitimate grievance your Lord will support your petition to the King,” Athos replied, completely ignoring the threat of the pistol pressed against his sternum. The man had clearly had something to say and Athos doubted he’d shoot him having just ensured he’d have an audience.

“Our Lord is a corrupt bastard who lines his pockets with our hard-earned coin,” the man stepped away from Athos and addressed his men, “We are done with it. The King sends you to collect his tax? Well we will pay it – with the heads of three musketeers!” While his men cheered at his words, Athos exchanged a look with Porthos. Three musketeers?

Athos had lost sight of D’Artagnan at the outset of the battle. He was acutely aware that their Gascon recruit was defenseless without a rapier or even his doublet to protect him from a blow. Still it would not be like him to have shrunk from a fight. But Athos could not remember seeing him at all. Porthos gave a miniscule tilt to his head and Athos’s eyes tracked toward the side of the road where Porthos’s horse had roamed into the brush. 

“Tie them up and get their horses,” the leader of the group had turned his attention back to his captives. Athos felt his arms pulled roughly behind him and coarse rope wrapped tightly around his wrists. Across the clearing, someone was doing the same to Porthos. A shout from the other side of the road got everyone’s attention.

“There’s another one ‘ere!” a man called out as he and another man dragged an unconscious D’Artagnan from the brush by the side of the road and deposited him at Athos’s feet next to the still unresponsive Aramis. Athos noted immediately the blood matted into D’Artagnan’s hair and surmised he must have gone down with a blow to the head, perhaps even a fall from his insecure perch on Porthos’s horse.

“Is he even a musketeer?” sneered one of their captors, “He’s not but a lad in his shirtsleeves. Not even a weapon on him but this,” he said, dropping Aramis’s slingshot onto D’Artagnan’s chest.

“Who is this man?” the leader demanded. It was Porthos though who answered first.

“An annoyance is what ‘e is,” Porthos rolled his eyes as he spoke, “The son of a Gascon farmer too poor to pay the death tax on his father’s farm. He’s indentured to me but that simpleton can’t even polish my boots.” Athos lifted an eyebrow and suppressed a smile. Porthos was a strategic genius.

“Yeah, but he was ridin’ with you,” another man spoke up, “I saw him fall off yer horse. You lot ain’t gonna let a servant ride.”

“He had a mount that went lame,” Athos spoke up, “We cannot be late in collecting the King’s taxes even if it means letting that man ride with us.”

“You can’t believe ‘im!” another man yelled out, “Them lot will lie as soon as breathe if they think they can save their skins.”

“Get ‘im up,” the leader answered, “Let’s see what he has to say for himself.” Two men pulled a limp D’Artagnan to a sitting position so another could lean over D’Artagnan and slap him across the face. There was no response. He struck him again and D’Artagnan’s head just rolled to the other side without even a moan. The third blow also brought no result and when the man raised his hand to strike again Athos knew he had to intervene.

“Stop!” Athos shouted before the next blow could fall, “If you mean to kill him you could do it far more easily by slitting his throat. Do you really have time to sit here and beat him to death?” The men holding up D’Artagnan took pause, looking up toward their leader with questions on their faces. The leader himself seemed uncertain, but just then Aramis picked this unfortunate moment to let out a low moan. While Athos was grateful the marksman was regaining consciousness, the timing could not have been worse.

“Wake that one up!” the leader spat and his men scrambled to obey, “We’ll find out what he has to say.” As Athos had anticipated, Aramis would be forced to verify their story and his answer could likely seal D’Artagnan’s fate. Athos and Porthos were shoved side by side and forced to kneel while Aramis was roughly hauled to a sitting position, moaning as consciousness returned. A stark trail of blood scraped down Aramis’s face from his temple to his jaw. It was likely heavy blow to the head that had felled him and Athos knew from experience the marksman would be groggy and confused upon waking. 

One of the men went to slap Aramis as he had D’Artagnan but the leader grabbed him and pulled him away. “No you idiot. You want to knock him out again? Here,” he said and shoved an open canteen into the man’s hands. He moved forward and unceremoniously dumped the contents over the marksman’s head, eliciting a gasp and a groan as Aramis forced open his eyes. Athos felt Porthos tense beside him as the leader drew the marksman’s own pistol and pushed into Aramis’s temple. 

Aramis was panting slightly to fight off the pain and Athos watched him rapidly blink unfocused eyes. Athos recognized the uncertainty on the marksman’s face and fear clenched his gut for the first time. They could lose both of them right here if this went badly. One of the bandits took this moment to slap Aramis hard across the face and the marksman’s eyes shot fully open with a gasp.

“Hey!” Porthos shouted, despite the weapon pointed toward them, “No need for that!”

“Shut up!” the leader yelled, and one of his men put a dagger to Porthos’s throat. “One more word from you and I’ll kill you both.” Porthos stiffened but said nothing further. Still his call had done what was needed. Aramis’s head had swung toward them and Athos saw a hint of relief in Aramis’s cloudy eyes. 

“Who is that man!” the leader growled into Aramis’s ear. Aramis’s eyes still seemed unfocused but Athos hoped he had caught the minute shake of his head. Aramis could not reveal D’Artagnan’s identity or this volatile man was likely to kill them all in a fit of rage.

“Don’t look at him!” The leader said, shoving the pistol with enough force into Aramis’s temple to make the marksman groan in pain. “Look there, right in front of you. Is that man a musketeer? If you lie to me, you’re both dead.” Athos watched Aramis take a deep breath and lick his lips, knowing the marksman was considering his answer and feeling the weight of his choice settle to his shoulders. Porthos was rigid and silent beside him. 

“That man is a musketeer,” Aramis’s words were slightly slurred, “ ‘bout as much as I’m the son of a whore and the bastard of a priest.” There was a moment when no one moved and then the leader dropped the pistol from where it was pressed against Aramis’s head, releasing the marksman to collapse to the ground and curl in on his side. Athos let out the breath he had been holding and felt Porthos push reassuringly against him with his shoulder.

“Enough of this. Tie him up,” the leader stood, waving a hand toward Aramis, “Take them to camp. Justice will be done.” Two men pulled Aramis back into a sitting position and began to tie his hands while two others pulled Athos and Porthos to their feet.

“What about that one?” one of the men asked.

“Leave him with some food and a blanket from one of their horses,” the leader answered, “He’s another victim of the King’s corruption. He’ll wake or he won’t but we don’t have enough supplies to support another mouth at camp.”

-M-M-M-M-

It was the throbbing in his head that drove D’Artagnan to consciousness. It took a few moments for him to slip fully into wakefulness but his soldier’s instinct kicked in as he quickly took stock of his situation. He seemed uninjured except for the drumming pain in his head. He was propped against a tree, a blanket thrown over his lap and a small bundle beside him. He was in his shirtsleeves and shivered slightly at the cool breeze as night crept into the forest. He was alone near the side of the road with no idea where the others were.

D'Artagnan pushed himself up to a standing position, leaning a bit on the tree until the world stopped swaying. He pressed a hand to the back of his head and it came back bloody. Someone had left him a blanket yet no one had tended his wound. The bundle by his side turned out to be dark bread and cheese, but nothing that the musketeers had been carrying. D’Artagnan slung the blanket over his shoulders for warmth and shuffled out of the brush and onto the road. 

He saw the signs of a skirmish, footprints, hoof prints, a patch of what might be blood and the memories of the attack seeped back into his mind. They had been ambushed a second time that day but D’Artagnan recalled nothing of the battle. He was unharmed save the blow to his head and could only piece together that he had been out cold for most of it. It was a mystery why he would be left on the side of the road with an untreated wound but covered in one of their blankets but D’Artagnan did not have much time to waste on puzzling it out. Night was falling and if he was going to track his friends, he would have to start moving now.

It was easy enough to see where the three horses had been led off into the scrubby forest. D’Artagnan took up the bread as his hunger registered. He looked around for water, but found none had been left with the food. It was not important now. Finding the others was paramount. D’Artagnan tied up the bundle with the cheese and tied it to his belt, crossing back over the road toward the trail leading into the forest. Just as he was leaving the road, he paused, stopping to pick up an object at his feet. Aramis’s slingshot. D’Artagnan smirked. At least he was armed.

-M-M-M-M-

The outlaws’ camp was a meager affair with a small fire and few supplies. The men were ragged and tired and had spent too much time in the elements with too little food. Daussy, as Athos discovered the leader was called, was hanging on to his ragtag band with little more than empty promises of retribution toward their lord and the king. They had known the musketeers would be traveling to collect the tax notices and had been waiting for several days to ambush them. Had they not had the unfortunate luck of D’Artagnan being unarmed and Aramis taking a blow to the head during the skirmish, the Musketeers could have overcome their attackers easily. Still here they were now, tied up at the mercy with a man who decided he had nothing to lose. It was a dangerous situation.

At least the three of them were being held together. They sat with hands tied behind them, shoulder to shoulder, with Aramis between them. They’d been propped with their backs to a large tree, but Porthos and Athos had shifted enough that they were able to press shoulders against Aramis. The marksman had managed the short march into the forest to the bandits’ camp well enough but had quickly fallen asleep or unconscious again once they were seated. They had shaken him awake a few times, knowing how it was head injuries, and Aramis had been more lucid each time. Now he rested with his head against Porthos’s shoulder, his slow steady breathing giving some reassurance to Athos that the marksman’s head injury was not causing him undue pain. Hopefully, it was a sign that the aftereffects would prove mild.

The camp was not well organized and only one guard had been placed, the man now standing a few feet away from where the musketeers were tied up. Athos had noted only three pistols amongst the men, the leader’s which was tucked at his belt and Aramis’s two firearms which had been given over to their guard. The Musketeers' remaining pistols and Aramis’s arquebus was unaccounted for but Athos suspected they were likely storing the weapons for future use as Daussy didn’t consider three trussed up musketeers much of a threat. Athos was confident they would prove him wrong.

A small sigh and a nudge against his shoulder let Athos know that Aramis was stirring. He turned his head to look at the marksman, still lying against Porthos shoulder, but Aramis’s breathing had changed slightly and his body tensed and Athos knew he was awake.

“How do you fare?” Athos asked quietly.

“Better,” Aramis answered softly but still not opening his eyes, “Head’s throbbing.”

“Not surprising,” Athos replied, “You look terrible.” That earned a nearly imperceptible chuckle.

“Stop,” Aramis said, “You are making it difficult to lay here and quietly look worse than I am.”

“You sayin’ you been playin’ possum this whole time?” Porthos mumbled grumpily.

“The entire time, no,” Aramis whispered, “But as you are more comfortable than the tree, the plan just came to me.”

“What plan is that besides you sleepin’ on me?” Porthos asked.

“The usual,” Aramis said, his lips barely moving, “Escape, fight the bad guys, and rescue you.” Athos felt another slight shift from Aramis and then the marksman moaned and twisted heavily into Athos.

“Are you in pain?” Athos asked concerned.

“Only from the ropes,” Aramis said from his new position buried in Athos’s shoulder. “But I’m almost free.”

Athos shared a dubious look with Porthos. “How?” he mumbled into Aramis’s hair.

“Had a lock pick up my sleeve,” Athos could hear the smirk in Aramis’s voice. Athos was reassured that the moaning and shifting was more subterfuge on Aramis’s part than actual injury. He had no doubt Aramis had a headache but his maneuvers to get loose from his bonds showed clear thinking and enough physical control to use the small lock pick effectively against the hemp rope. Still, with only one of them free and two armed men in the camp, they were far from out of the situation.

Athos was pulled from his thoughts by a low curse from their guard. He glanced over to see the man scratching at the back of his neck. A moment later another curse and the man slapped his hand over his ear.

“Damn bugs,” he muttered, now scratching at his ear. Athos exchanged a look with Porthos, pleased to see the big man’s grin. A moment later their guard twitched again, this time slapping at his neck.

“Getting eaten up there are ya?” Porthos said companionably.

“What’s it to you?” the guard sneered.

“Nothin’,” Porthos answered nonchalantly, “Just makin’ conversation.”

“Well stop,” the guard said, smacking at another bug.

“Hey Athos,” Porthos said, leaning closer to the swordsman. Aramis slumped lower, his upper body hidden partially by Porthos’s bulk. Athos felt the marksman squirming now in earnest as he worked on the ropes, “You think that those are French chiggers or them Spanish ones?” he said with a quick wink. Athos heard Aramis’s low chuckle. They knew he hated getting pulled into these games. But with Aramis laying low Athos had little choice than to be Porthos’s partner in crime this time.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Athos said dryly. “Enlighten me to the difference.” Porthos rolled his eyes. Athos knew he wasn’t good at this but he was doing his best.

“Well let’s hope it’s the French ones,” Porthos said knowingly while the guard slapped at his neck and then his ear in rapid succession, “Those Spanish chiggers, those ones swarm. Remember those corpses in Blois? Spanish chiggers did that.”

“That looked like a terrible way to die,” Athos said seriously. Their guard swatted at his head and waived his arms to chase away the unseen bugs.

“What happened to ‘em?” the guard asked, caught up in the conversation.

“So many bites you could hardly see his features from the bloat,” Porthos said, “Skin covered in pussy sores. Eyes dripping blood.” Porthos gave a meaningful glance to the guard, looking him up and down, “You got a lot of bites there. But eh, probably just them French chiggers.”

The guard yelped as another bite stung his neck, and then the back of his hand. “But what if it’s not. What if it’s them Spanish ones?”

“Well, they’ve got the scent of you now,” Athos intoned, “Not much you can do.” The man’s eye’s widened in panic.

“They hate pine tar though,” Porthos said, “Can’t stand the smell of it.”

“I don’t have that!” the man whined, whirling his arms to keep the bugs at bay, “What do I do?”

“Isn’t there a stand of pine trees behind us?” Athos asked Porthos.

“Yeah, I think I saw them while they were tying us up,” Porthos breathed deeply, “Yup definitely pine. I love that smell.”

“Pine tar, yer sure?” the guard nearly whimpered as another bite landed between his shoulder blades.

“Well it’s that,” Athos said, “Or you could just stand here and see what happens.” The guard glanced over at the camp to make sure none of his comrades were looking before slipping off into the darkness beyond the ring of the campfire.

“Pine tar,” Aramis snorted from beneath them.

“Well it got him out of here didn’t it?” Porthos said, “You free?”

“Just,” Aramis answered, “Help me up a bit will you?” Porthos rolled his eyes again but shifted over to give Aramis some space. Keeping his hands behind his back the marksman wriggled up using his shoulders against Athos and Porthos, ending up half laying over Porthos’s chest.

“Really” Porthos muttered.

“Needs must, mon ami,” Aramis whispered back. A soft thud and a rustle of leaves behind them caught their attention.

“There is our Gascon, right on cue,” Aramis smiled as he closed his eyes and nestled into Porthos’s side, pretending to go back to sleep. But Athos knew he would move fast as soon as D’Artagnan gave him an opening. They didn’t have long to wait.

D’Artagnan burst from the darkness on the other side of the campfire, brandishing Aramis’s pistols and shouting at the men to stand down. Not unexpectedly Daussy stood and whirled to face the threat, pistol pointed at D’Artagnan only a few feet away from him. The Gascon’s eyes went wide as he realized the danger, but before he had any further time to react the outlaw went down hard, taken out by a flying tackle from Aramis. The marksman had Daussy disarmed and pinned beneath him before half his men even realized he was down. Aramis took Daussy’s weapon and fired a shot in the air.

“Enough!” he bellowed and the clearing stilled as some men ran for the darkness and others held their hands up in surrender. Aramis grinned broadly as D’Artagnan pointed his commandeered pistols at the remaining men, indicating they disarm. Aramis secured Daussy’s wrists with a length of rope that had still been wrapped around his own then rose to face Athos and Porthos.

“I love it when a plan comes together,” he beamed, rubbing his hands in front of him.

“There’ll be no living with ‘im now,” Porthos said, shaking his head in dismay.

“I think I would have rather taken my chances with the Spanish chiggers,” Athos agreed, yet as his eyes met Aramis’s he couldn’t help but give the marksman one of his rare smiles, grateful to him and D’Artagnan for securing their freedom.

-M-M-M-M-

“I’m fairly sure that Spanish chiggers are not real,” Aramis said again. The marksman was riding beside Porthos and Athos was fairly certain Aramis had started the conversation just to annoy him. Athos straightened in the saddle, refusing to give in by turning around.

“Well they could be real,” Porthos answered, “Just because you don’t know that they are doesn’t mean that they aren’t.” 

“You are in a sorry state mon ami if you are starting to believe your own stories,” Aramis tutted.

“I’m just saying they might be,” Porthos said, “Can’t you admit that maybe I’m right?”

“I can, and I would,” Aramis said, “If there was at all any chance of it.”

“What, you are an expert on bugs now?” Porthos snickered.

“Not an expert, no,” Aramis answered, “But there was this one woman in Chartres who had a collection of . . . Ow!” Aramis squawked loudly enough to finally provoke Athos to turn in his saddle. Aramis and Porthos had stopped their mounts and Aramis was rubbing the back of his neck, a disgruntled grimace on his face.

“Sorry!” came D’Artagnan’s cheerful shout from the rear. “Just practicing for the next time,” he called out, brandishing the slingshot above his head. Athos sighed and kicked his mount forward again. He suspected it was going to be a long, annoying ride back to Paris.


End file.
